


First Light

by Callie4180



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Gift Fic, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Prompt Fic, post-series 3 (eventually)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/pseuds/Callie4180
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For thevanishingtwin, as my ridiculously late submission in the Summerlock Exchange 2014, with all possible apologies. </p><p>Their excellent prompt was, "Sherlock avoids direct sunlight on his pale skin at all cost. Johnlock, any rating!" </p><p>This might not be what you were expecting, but I do hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thevanishingtwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevanishingtwin/gifts).



After dusk, any weather was welcome. Clear night, cloudy night, it was all fine. In daytime hours, though, well, fog was good. Or rain. Snow, in season. Thick haze. Indistinct grey was the proper daytime backdrop for the city Sherlock loved.

Today’s weather was not appropriate London weather. This was inconvenient.

“Lovely day, Sherlock. Fancy a walk around the park?” John, no jumper, head tilted, eyes soft, relaxed.

Fortunately, excuses were plentiful and ready at hand. Experiments. Composing. Research. Analyses. Clean the refrigerator, if needs must. He was always prepared.

“Maybe next time, John.”

He lifted his eyes from the microscope, but did not pause to focus. Quick smile: vague, distracted.

“You sure? God only knows when we’ll see a day like this again.”

Too soon, Sherlock was certain. And if he moved from the kitchen and leaned against the window to watch John’s hair flash golden in the daylight, well, at least the bloody sun was good for something.

**XXXXXXXX**

“Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s smirk of relief was real, but brief. Mycroft struggled with the ancient cuffs, stiff as they were from rust, and cold, and what Sherlock had concluded was blood in the hinges. His shoulders screamed as the pressure of the chain finally gave, and his arms dropped, numb, to his sides. His neck was stiff from strain and cold, but his legs moved toward the door of the cell with no hesitation.

Mycroft stayed close, just at his side, not touching him as he staggered down the hall. “This way, little brother,” he murmured, as they moved – Mycroft gliding, Sherlock stumbling – to a locked steel door. Mycroft made short work of the chain and padlock, and pushed open the door. He stepped aside to let Sherlock go through, keeping an eye down the hallway behind them.

Sherlock staggered and almost fell through the doorway. After so many days in darkness, the sunlight was blinding.

As he raised a hand to shield his eyes, Sherlock heard the harsh Serbian cries, and started to turn toward the sound. Through the glare, he had only the impression of a silhouette coming toward him. Before Sherlock could focus, before he could move, Mycroft swung around from behind him, aimed a handgun, and fired. A body fell, silenced, in front of Sherlock, across his shadow.

Squinting, Sherlock brought the body into hazy focus. The soldier was of below average height, but strong. Blood started to stream from a wound just above his eyebrow, down over the man’s temple, into his grey hair. Or was it blonde? The rims of his irises were deep blue, and the pupils were dilating, and he was blonde, and now his eyes were dead and he was dead and he, he was…

John.

He wasn’t John. Was he John? This was not John.

Sherlock fell to his knees, stunned. He stared at the hole in the man’s forehead. Forehead? No, it should have been his shoulder. But this was not John. Was it? No.

Was it?

“Sherlock. We must go. Others are coming.”

Sherlock stared at the pale face before him. No one (not John) stared back.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft tugged on his arm, but there was no resistance. Sherlock’s mouth was open. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t look away.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft stepped in front of him, obscuring the body on the ground (Clothes. A jumper? Jeans? Was John in uniform? This was NOT JOHN). Mycroft tried to lift his chin, to pull his gaze away. Sherlock slanted his eyes toward the body, around the glove that held his face. He could only see the hand of the body on the ground, next to a semi-automatic rifle. John usually carried a handgun. That wasn’t a handgun. The hand wasn’t large. The fingers looked strong. There were no tremors.

“SHERLOCK!” Desperate, Mycroft reached above his head and slapped Sherlock, hard, on his beaten, bloody back.

Pain ripped through Sherlock, and he drew in the deep breath of a man pulled from drowning. Shouts, pain, and movement flooded his senses as Mycroft pulled him to his feet. He started to stumble, and then to run. The sun was so bright. He heard helicopters in the distance.

He was out. That was not John back there. He wasn’t leaving John. He was going home. Home. He was running. He was running toward John. John, at Baker Street. John, who was alive. Alive.

John.

**XXXXXXXX**

“Two tickets to the match, Sherlock. Mike couldn’t use them. Want to go?”

Sherlock looked up from his book to the window. It wasn’t bright outside, but the forecast was uncertain. The sky could clear. It was too risky. Waste an excuse?

No, cue derision. Sneer.

“Rugby, John? Really?”

John shrugged. “You’ve nothing on. At the very least, you might enjoy deducing the crowd.”

Lift an eyebrow. “I rather think not.”

“I’ll ask Greg, then, if you’re sure.”

“Yes. You do that.” Sherlock looked back to his book, shifting away from John on the sofa. He’d have an extra few hours alone to fill. If despair briefly crossed his features, John didn’t notice.

**XXXXXXXX**

London had seen sunnier days, but at least it wasn’t raining. All the wedding guests seemed to agree that this was a good omen. Sherlock had promised, had more than promised to be on his best behaviour, and so he pasted on a false smile, nodded, and didn’t argue the portents. John didn’t seem to notice the weather. He didn’t seem to notice Sherlock being on his best behaviour either, but then, he had good reason to be distracted.

John waited in an antechamber as the appointed hour approached. Sherlock kept an eye on the door as he performed his duties. He inspected the flowers closely, and blooms found wanting were quickly dispatched and replaced. The rings were carefully polished. The coiffures and dresses of the bridesmaids were carefully considered and found adequate. Everything seemed in place. Every few minutes, Sherlock would circulate by John’s waiting room and see that he needed for nothing. Coffee was refreshed, shoulders were brushed, a comb offered. Sherlock noticed that John looked very fit in his dress clothes, if a bit pale. Nervous, then. Not unexpected. Sherlock smiled readily and kept lightness in his voice, but he was careful not to make eye contact with John even once.

He avoided the room where Mary waited altogether.

The ceremony went like clockwork, everything according to plan. Sherlock stood at attention next to John, restrained and formal. Vows were spoken, the rings exchanged. The music was inoffensive, if frightfully dull, and the children paralyzed with fear. There were no surprises. Everything was perfect for John. For John and Mary. Of course, for the happy couple.

Sherlock cued the processional music with a subtle nod, and John and Mary turned to face the assembled as man and wife. John, the idiot, moved his left foot to take his first married step, but a quiet clearing of Sherlock’s throat caught him, and he quickly changed to his right. The newly married couple moved smoothly together, down the aisle and toward the door. Sherlock stepped over to the chief bridesmaid without looking to her, checking quickly to see that the photographer was in place. All was proceeding as planned, right on schedule.

John and Mary stepped through the doorway and into the dark vestibule. The church bells started to peal as the church doors were thrown open. Sunlight, unexpected but welcome, flooded the entryway. Sherlock and the bridesmaid – Janine? right, Janine – followed closely behind. John and Mary stepped through the door, and as Mary turned to look at her new husband, the bright sunlight cast a shadow across her face. Eclipse. The word came unbidden to Sherlock’s mind. Eclipse. He didn’t know astronomy, but he did know darkness.

In that moment, he knew the fullness of envy.

**XXXXXXXX**

“Lestrade called, said you weren’t answering texts or calls.”

Sherlock lowered his violin. “Hmmm.”

“There’s a case.”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped to the floor, where the late afternoon sun was just beginning to cast long shadows.

“Later. I’m busy.”

John walked over to stand before him. “Busy with what?“

“Thinking, John. Thinking. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. “ Sherlock looked down and dulled his gaze, just a bit; he knew it helped him look distracted.

“Sherlock. You haven’t had a case in a week. You’ve been out of your mind. Two days ago, you were begging me to kill someone just to break the dry spell. C’mon, let’s go see what he’s got.”

Sherlock sniffed, and picked up his phone, thumbing through his texts. “It’s barely a four. I’m not leaving the flat for a four.”

“It’s a case, Sherlock. It’s better than nothing.”

Sherlock stayed silent, looking away, and after a minute, John threw up his hands.

“Fine, then. Stay here in your cave, but text him yourself. Don’t expect me for tea.”

John turned on his heel and stalked out of the flat. Sherlock waited for the slam of the door from downstairs before laying his violin on the coffee table. He rubbed his fingers across his eyes.

He hoped John didn’t stay angry. He hoped John wouldn’t be gone long. He hoped someone got decent pictures of the crime scene, for a change.

Text to Lestrade: _Occupied. Apologies. Meet at NSY in two hours? SH_

**XXXXXXXX**

The glare off the tarmac was intolerable. Sherlock hated the quiet sheen of Mycroft’s car, hated the blue sky, hated the midday sun that denied John Watson even a hint of shadow. John’s eyes were deep pools of blue with black pinpoints of pain in their centres. He stood rigid, tight with tension, and only the periodic clench of his right hand offered any sign of the effort it was taking for him to remain in control.

Mary (not Mary) stood before him, their infant daughter in her arms.

Once the negotiations had been completed, all had agreed there wouldn’t be much point in waiting. Sherlock had watched John’s silent battle to prepare for this meeting, unable to help. He stood by silently, wanting the drama to be over, the plaster mercifully stripped, while needing ( _needing_ ) John to have this last memory of his daughter. Sherlock was kind enough to not offer comfort. He knew, better than anyone, how it felt to watch this woman walk away with the best of you.

John’s face was fierce, but he gently took the little roll of blanket and baby and pulled her close to his chest. He turned away from Mary and toward Sherlock as he cradled the baby in the crook of his arm. He slid his index finger across the powdered velvet of his daughter’s cheek, and down her tiny sleeping bow of a mouth. Sherlock heard John’s breathing catch, and his heart nearly stopped as their eyes met. John’s expression was one of sorrow, and desperation, and absolute, abject grief. 

Sherlock held his gaze, and ached.

John finally looked back down at his sleeping daughter for one last long moment. Turning back to Mary, he carefully handed the quiet bundle back to her. After one final soft look, he stiffened, took a crisp step back, and looked Mary directly in the eye.

His voice was tear-thick, but steady. “If you let anything happen to her, anything, even a scratch, no agreement will save you. I will find you, and your death will not be an easy one. The CIA, Mycroft Holmes, the bloody Queen will not be able to stop me from ending you.” John lifted his chin, maintaining his determined glare. “Are we clear on this?”

Mary’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Sherlock could see her considering an angry reply. Then she looked over John’s shoulder to Sherlock, and behind him to the dark car, and Mycroft. She drew in a quick breath and her eyes widened as she looked from face to face. Sherlock would have loved to witness Mycroft in that moment. No one could communicate icy disregard for someone’s continued existence quite so well as his brother, and Sherlock could only approve. He knew his own face showed only resolve. He was John Watson’s second in this matter, and he would never fail John Watson again.

Mary looked back to John, and finally settled for a small, crisp nod. John looked back to the baby, his gaze softening for a moment. “Goodbye, little one,” he murmured. Leaning forward, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead, and then straightened and gave a determined nod. “Mary,” he said, with finality.

Mary gazed at him a moment longer, uncertain but hopeful, but when no further words came, she hugged the baby into her red coat and slowly turned away. A minute later, the door of the plane closed with a loud metallic clang. Only Sherlock noticed John’s minute flinch, and he hid his own sympathetic wince as he stepped up to stand beside him.

The small craft started to taxi. Sun glared off the metal wings, momentarily blinding both of them as they watched the plane begin its ascent. The two men stood together, silently, until the sound of the engines faded, and then until the plane was no longer visible on the horizon.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. “Come home to Baker Street, John,” he said quietly.

A long minute passed as the men continued staring after the plane.

“Yeah, all right,” John said, almost a whisper.

**XXXXXXXX**

Sherlock stood at the window of Baker Street, staring out at the fading night. Below him, the street lamps glowed with a faint shimmer of early dawn. It had been his favourite kind of London night, clear and cold, but while he hadn’t slept, neither had he noticed the evening. His thoughts were upstairs, with John. It had been six weeks since Mary had left, and John seemed…fine. He ate regular meals. He flipped through the paper, and occasionally watched television. He seemed to be sleeping at night. But Sherlock watched him turn down Lestrade’s offers of pints and whiskey, and his conversation was clipped, though still pleasant. He sat for hours, staring at the walls, or into the fire. He never left the flat. John was well, and he was here, in Baker Street, but it seemed the light had left his eyes.

Sherlock had been casual about cases since John had come back. He wasn’t avoiding them, really, but instead of taxi rides and crime scenes, there were quiet phone calls taken downstairs and circumspect reviews of photos on email. He would have found such limitations infuriating under any other circumstances, but all that mattered right now was John. John, at Baker Street. John, who needed him.

Maybe.

Sherlock had never felt more out of his depth. He remembered a night, lifetimes ago, when he had stood in this very window, violin in hand, and John, armed with a large whiskey, had been brave enough to ask how he was feeling. He had never found the words to answer. Now, Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned in, and pressed his forehead to the window. Could he now find the courage to ask that question? Would it be welcome? After all this time, Sherlock had no idea if it would be kinder to catch John’s tears, or to ignore them.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to see the barest silhouette of John, standing behind him in the still dark sitting room.

“John.”

“Yeah. Sorry to startle you.” John moved to his chair and slumped into it, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.

“No, no, of course you’re…wait, it’s early. Why are you up?” Sherlock moved to his chair and sat, peering at John through the dim light from the window. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, only I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“Well.” Sherlock thought hard for a minute. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, ta, but I don’t think so.”

“No. Right.” Sherlock thought for another moment. “Well, how about…”

“Sherlock.” John lifted his head from his hands and looked at Sherlock. “I’m fine, I just, well. I woke up and didn’t. Didn’t want to be, you know. Alone.” He leaned his head back against the chair. “I’m glad you’re up, actually.”

“Oh.”

They sat quietly in the half darkness for a few minutes. Sherlock looked down at his clasped hands, listened to John’s slow breaths, and wondered what he could possibly do to make things better.

“John.”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s…let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk? It’s…Sherlock, it’s still dark.”

“Yes.”

“It’s winter. In London.”

“Yes.”

John considered him for a moment, expressionless. Then, at last, “All right, then.” 

He went upstairs for a few minutes, and came back down in jeans and a jumper. In the darkness of the sitting room, they both pulled on their coats. Sherlock wasn’t at all sure what he was doing, but it felt right to be moving. John was a man of action, and he had been far too inactive of late.

They left the flat quietly and turned by silent agreement toward Regent’s Park. The lights in the shops of Baker Street were slowly warming the windows, but the only sounds around them were the hushed shuffle of their shoes on the pavement, and their shared exhales. For a moment, Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined they were the only souls in London.

It was no more than ten minutes before they found themselves looking through the fence at the green of the park. Sherlock glanced at John from the corner of his eye. 

“Well. Going to be a nice day, I think.”

John snorted softly. “Are you really talking about the weather?”

“Sorry. I just...sorry.”

“You can talk to me, Sherlock.” John kept looking through the fence at the park. The morning light caught the blue of his eyes, and the faint golden glow of his skin. Sherlock could see the lines around his eyes, deeper than ever before. John continued, almost murmuring, “I’d like you to talk to me.”

“John. I just...” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I have absolutely no idea what to say.”

John smiled softly. “I know.” His smile grew wider. “Wait, did you just admit you didn’t know something?”

Sherlock grinned, hesitantly. “Shut up.”

“Hmmmm.” John smiled a moment longer, and then looked to his feet. “You haven’t been taking cases.”

“Well. It’s been quiet...”

“No, it hasn’t,” John interrupted, gently. “Greg mentioned it yesterday, said you’d asked him not to call if he could help it.” John lifted his head to look at Sherlock. “Why?”

Sherlock blinked in gentle surprise. “Why?”

“Yes. Why aren’t you working?”

“Well. Um. I thought I should stay home. You might need, um. Something.”

“What would I need?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes briefly shut, and ran his gloved hand through his hair with an exasperated sigh. “John, I’ve absolutely no idea.”

“Sherlock.” John stepped closer, and gently clasped Sherlock’s shoulder. “Nothing about any of this has been simple.” John huffed a laugh. “None of it is even believable, really. I mean, have you imagined telling someone this story?”

Sherlock’s mouth curled upwards at one corner. “I suspect I would rather enjoy reading Mycroft’s official reports. I’m certain they are masterpieces of dramatic understatement.”

“No doubt.” John’s eyes were soft as his hand slowly slid down until they hovered over Sherlock’s gunshot scar. Sherlock felt his skin burning from the pressure of John’s light touch on his coat. “Sherlock. I…” John took a deep breath. “You’re right. It’s impossible to talk about this.”

Sherlock drew breath for a resigned sigh, but before the air could pass his lips, John was kissing him. Kissing him. John was _kissing him_. John’s lips were dry and the tip of John’s nose against his cheek was cold, and John was KISSING HIM. Sherlock’s lips parted slightly in an involuntary gasp of shock, and there was the tip of John’s tongue _oh God_ barely sliding into his mouth, tickling the inside of his lower lip for no more than a second. John’s kiss. It was warm, and it was velvet, and it was blinding. The sun was rising behind Sherlock’s eyes, and combined with the burning from John’s gentle touch on his chest, he was suddenly quite sure he was aflame. He had been wrong, years ago. John was not merely a conductor of light; he was the source.

Too soon and after a lifetime, John gently broke the kiss, and leaned to press their foreheads together. His voice was a quiet murmur. “Sherlock, you’re the only thing in my life that makes any sense, and that makes no sense at all.”

Sherlock hummed in quiet agreement. His hand clasped John’s against his chest, and his other arm curved around his back, keeping him close. They stood together on the street in the early morning light, eyes closed, seeing each other perfectly.

After too short a time, John sighed and pulled back, keeping his hand curled into the wool of Sherlock’s coat. “We should go home. It’s really cold out here.”

Sherlock, smiling, looked back to the fence. “I don’t know, John, I rather fancy a morning stroll through the park .”

John grinned. “Oh. Right. Well, lovely day for it. Gates open in a couple of hours. We’ll just wait.”

“Would you rather I break in?” Sherlock asked, squeezing John’s hand lightly.

John chuckled. “We could go round to the zoo and free the animal prisoners. That’d be an unusual start to Greg’s day. All the monkeys loose, and the two of us collared.”

“Oh, John, you have no faith in me. You assume we’d get caught. I assure you, we would not.”

John looked up to Sherlock to see the slight smirk on his face. “Crossing over to the criminal class.”

“It’s more than time. Donovan’s been predicting it for years.”

Both men chuckled. “Well, it’s what I like,” John said. 

Sherlock smiled a slow, wide smile, and lifted his gaze back toward the park. The sun was mostly up, now. The colours of the flowers and sky were growing vivid in the morning light. He could see even the blades of grass, faintly shimmering with frost and early dew. It was early, and cold, and bright, and really, all of it was brilliant.

Sherlock entwined his fingers through John’s, and they turned as one toward the east, toward Baker Street and home.

**Author's Note:**

> With infinite gratitude to mydwynter, who talked me down off the roof of St Bart's on far too many occasions. PLEASE NOTE, this fic is un-Betaed, and has not been Brit picked. All faults are mine and mine alone.


End file.
